


When You Were Young

by Jon



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not Happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jon/pseuds/Jon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And sometimes you close your eyes</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And see the place where you used to live</i>
  <br/>
  <i>When you were young</i>
</p><p>Dwalin makes a choice- and at the end of all things, he must live with it</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Were Young

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a present for [dwalinsonoffundin](dwalinsonoffundin.tumblr.com)\- a roleplayer who continues to shape the way I write Dwalin.

 

 

_And sometimes you close your eyes_

_And see the place where you used to live_

_When you were young_

_**_

 

He takes up the clothes- his hands are shaking, yet he forces them to still. Suppressing these emotions- something always so easy and natural for him in life- is like holding back the tide of orcs which had rushed upon them in the battle.

Dwalin sinks to his knees, and feels his brother move behind him to lift him but he’s a dead weight in Balin’s arms. Burying his face in the folds of the material, he can smell the blood on them, the fire and the mud- but he also smells him.

He smells Thorin’s scent still lingering on them; the last shreds of his soul still not departed from the world imprinted upon the soft wool.

‘ _Brother-_ ’ but Balin has no words for this time. Dwalin feels a hand try to take the robes and jacket from him, but prising them out of his grasp is impossible; he clutches them so hard his knuckles crack inside the metal of his dusters.

It’s only after a few seconds that he realises he’s screaming.

 

**

 

He remembers when they were young

The first thing he searches for is Thorin- and the mantra on his breath is ‘ _no, no, no_ ’ as he speeds through the halls. Everything is in flames, and everything is being torn down around his ears. He pushes against the crush of people streaming out of the Mountain, and ignores the pulls on his jerkin by his friends as they scream at him to get out.

‘BROTHER!’

One voice is louder than the rest- and more desperate. In a daze, he sees Balin on top of the battlements- wildly gesticulating to him to get outside. Dwalin comes to a sudden halt, looking up at his imploring face, which is blackened by soot and streaming with sweat.

‘NO!’ he screams again.

He knows Dwalin isn’t going to leave without the prince, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He clutches the wall of the rampart and leans down, as if almost prepared to leap to Dwalin to stop him.

Below him, his brother sees his lips form one last plea, but it’s drowned out by something crashing down to his left, and he hears instead the shrill splinter of stone on green marble.

Dwalin takes a deep breath in- he chokes on it suddenly, and his eyes sting and water- as far off he hears the roar of the dragon. It comes from the King’s Halls.

_Thorin._

He fills his eyes and mind with Balin’s anguished face for a last time- trying, in case the worst came to the worst, to etch it on his mind forever.

He turns his back and runs.

Dwalin is still shaking from the glimpse of the dragon, his legs pushing him on haltingly- and he’s surely been deafened by the noise of it’s cry, but he helps the young dwarf haul up his father, who sits on the floor clutching his head- blood dripping through his fingers. Taking the brunt of Thrain’s weight in his arms, he yells at Thorin to run ahead- to save himself and forget about him.

The other dwarf flinches and turns as if to run, and Dwalin gives him a kick to the back of his legs to spur him. As Thorin’s eyes are lit up by the violent orange glow, the fear in them is infectious. But Dwalin doesn’t show it. He _cannot_ show it

‘ _Save yourself_ , _you’re more important than any of us_!’ he yells, struggling to lift Thrain’s body. He crumples under the weight and the smoke, shame burning in him as he attempts to right himself.

As the words fall from his mouth, he sees Thorin shake his head, and at once the fear in the prince’s eyes is tempered by determination.

‘I could never leave you, Dwalin.’

 

He remembers when they were young.

Thorin’s beard had been short, barely grown out to past his chin. His skin had been paler, his hands softer and his hair unstreaked by rivers of grey. He remembers how he’d taken him on to train him up- a green youth barely past his majority age and unused to the feel of an axe handle to his palm- and at first Dwalin had been derisive of him; he’d been spoiled growing up, especially with Thror in charge.

Slowly, Thorin learned- slowly, Dwalin could see the years of being a pampered child cut down, as surely as Thorin cut down straw dummies with a deft, strong hand. He was adept with a sword, and adept with the axe- and both blades he learned, in time, to craft himself.

He doesn’t know when he started to fall in love Thorin, but it seems as though it was there all his life. As soon as the realisation had hit- so did the crush in his chest- a pain so deep it shocked him.

Thorin was in line to be king, and Dwalin was in line to keep the king’s back from harm, and with that, keep his distance.

If Balin ever knew, he never let on.

 

He remembers the first time they had met with each other under the moonlight, away from Thorin’s overbearing father and grandfather.

They clasp hands, and Thorin’s gentle smile never fails to make Dwalin smile in return, though at any moment he expects a knife in the back from one of his young charge’s guards.

In a movement reserved for the closest of kin, Thorin takes Dwalin’s face in his hands, and presses their foreheads together. This quickly becomes a kiss, and the kiss deepens until they’re both gasping.

He remembers most the feeling of Thorin’s hands in his hair, that he still feels, even though the hair is now long gone.

How Thorin runs his fingers through it, his mouth pulled in a quirk which makes his smile even wider.

‘You’re not who I imagined I would love, Dwalin, when my father told me I’d have a queen at my side one day,’ he says with a small laugh.

Dwalin pushes thoughts out of his head- thoughts of what Thror would do if he found them out, what Balin or his father would think of him abusing his position like this.

He had never thought he would be captivated by Thorin; all of his dark hair falling around his shoulders elegantly, and his clothes rich and neat.

And here he was, still with mud and blood on his shoes from the day’s scouting.

‘No. Y’ not like I imagined, either,’ Dwalin sighs.

 

He remembers when they were young.

Dwalin arrives at the door of Thorin’s chambers- for something, he remembers not what- and sees the door ajar. Something moves in him to push it without knocking. He nearly steps back as the sight hits him: Thorin balled up as if in pain, hunched on the floor of his room in the Blue Mountains.

‘Thorin-’ he begins, but at the sight of the hacked off hair which litters the floor, he stills, unable to think. Thorin is sobbing deeply, shaking- and Dwalin realises he is only wearing a simple robe, torn open at the front, and the room is icy cold.

A discarded knife lies to one side, and Dwalin’s heart freezes as he sees it striped with blood. In his haste to cut his beard, he has also cut his chin, and the blood, as his father’s blood did so many years ago, drips from him into his clutching fingers.

‘No…’ he whispers to Thorin- but he doesn’t know what he means by it, other than demanding his pain to stop by some ethereal force. He sits down next to Thorin and gathers him up in his arms.

‘Not… not until we’re back home, Dwalin. Until then… I’m no king,’ he splutters. Dwalin hesitates, before leaning in for a kiss on his cheek. He presses the edge of his sleeve to the cut on his chin and gently brushes the stray hairs away. They fall gracefully to the floor- and Dwalin curses every one.

‘Don’ talk like that, Thorin. You’re king enough for me, and for everyone else,’ he says defiantly.

‘You- you think I am worthy?’ he asks, and his bloodshot eyes chance a look up at Dwalin. The other dwarf is still reeling; he doesn’t know how to deal with this apart from holding the king’s body in his arms, staring at him. It was always Balin who was good at this sort of stuff.

‘I’d never leave you, Thorin. No’ even if everyone else did,’ he says softly.

He can’t help but feel his heart leap as Thorin blesses him with that smile again, warm and comforting as the arms which now hold him in return.

‘I’ve never heard you talk like that before about me, Dwal. A true gentledwarf!’ he kids, and Dwalin gently cuffs him on the side of his shoulder. He smiles as Thorin stands shakily, looking down at the fallen strands of his hair.

 

He remembers the inadequacy that had eaten him up ever since his heart had first decided it wanted Thorin. An inadequacy, which brewed and matured with age.

Thorin’s roar at his back drives the wind from him like a strong kick. A kick which Dwalin deserves, but it doesn’t come. Instead what’s worse is the slam of the door- the pause- then the unmistakeable sound of a fist punching it.

One again, Dwalin- the lesser son of Fundin- had been caught in another’s embrace.

As Dwalin sets foot at home, Balin knows immediately the cause of his shaky limbs and averted gaze, and as such greets him with his usual exasperated sigh and a cold look. His brother is no longer a young dwarfling, and he should know better.

‘Why? _Why_ do you do this?’ he says.

Dwalin sits heavily on the chair and studies his calloused hands, worn and dry.

‘I don’t know,’ he says quietly. It’s a lie, and Balin knows it, but he’s too angry with his brother tonight to try and fix his damage once again.

Dwalin knows it’s because he doesn’t deserve the king- and instead sleeps around- an old habit. He hides it from Thorin, knowing that even though they barely see each other these days, it still hurts him to get word- or sight- of his conquests, even if they are meaningless.

His head hits the table as he exhales out, slumping forward. His mind is decimated enough for tonight.

Between Thorin and himself, nothing is official- yet everything is.

At the end of his tether he allows himself this privacy to weep tonight, knowing the only person who could see him is Balin. Not for the first time, he wishes he were back in Thorin’s arms, instead of those of a dwarf whose name already escapes his mind.

Only one thing is certain now: he must make a decision.

 

He remembers, as if it were yesterday, the choice he made.

The cave is light enough, and they deem it safe to light a fire to dry their clothes and for warmth. Nevertheless, the night chill creeps in as the hours pass, and Dwalin sets his bedroll far at the back of the cave to evade it, yearning for a warm night at last.

Thorin agrees to take the first watch; he says he will not sleep tonight. For some time, Dwalin watches him as around him the others fall into their dreams, and the embers of the fire burn down.

They’re the only two awake.

He gets up, and stretches- Thorin turns his head at the unexpected movement, and smiles slightly.

‘I thought you’d be awake,’ he says quietly, as Dwalin stalks over the maze of bodies to join him sitting on the jutting rock at the cave mouth.

He sits down beside him, and immediately Thorin leans back into his arms, nestling his head in Dwalin’s chest and breathing slowly. Dwalin’s fingers twitch as they find Thorin’s back and stroke down absent-mindedly. His mind tells him he should stop, and his fingers barely obey.

‘I’ve been thinking… about us,’ he says. He doesn’t mean his voice to sound pained, but it’s low and strained in Thorin’s ear. He has thought about what he would say since before they had set out on the Quest, but voicing it… voicing it is another thing entirely.

The king stands up and looks at him, and Dwalin senses him go into defence-mode, straight-backed and alert.

‘You… you wish for us not to…’ Thorin says, and Dwalin can see his mind working in overtime at his words. They both know what he means.

Dwalin sighs, but manages to keep his eyes on Thorin’s face. He’s older now. They both are. And they need to make a choice before journey’s end.

But Thorin’s body is so close to his, and Dwalin is unwilling, even now, to push him away. Thorin’s always been his weakness, since they were young. Instead, his hand comes up to pull him towards him- and every movement he regrets, even when Thorin’s hand is cupping his cheek, and the other grips his thigh. The younger dwarf shakes his head slightly- as if clearing an irksome fly from his face. His mouth is so close to Dwalin’s and he can feel his tantalising breath, teasing him… urging him to kiss the lips he’s kissed more times than he cares to admit.

‘Y’ need a queen,’ he says quietly. His voice isn’t pained now- but resigned. And he makes his choice.

Thorin stays like this with one hand on Dwalin’s cheek, pressing closer to his lips with a thumb.

‘You know I don’t need a queen. I need _you_. I always have,’ he pleads, and his eyes are wide and anxious. Dwalin’s never heard him speak like this before, not with anyone, and never pleading him to stay. But Dwalin knows he can’t.

‘You know why. You will be king, and I can’t be your-’ his voice breaks.

He can’t be what Thorin imagined when he was young. And Thorin could never be his. No matter how many times Dwalin cursed birth, responsibility, blood- the life they had secretly wished for was a fool’s hope only.

He battles with himself, albeit inside he’s breaking down as the slow creep of realisation steals away across Thorin’s face- the face that he will continue to dream of. The face he loves.

His hand slips from his cheek, and Dwalin fights himself not to place it back there- as he would in happier times when they were both young enough to ignore responsibility. His own hand has long since dropped from Thorin’s backside where it had treacherously held him before, and it is still warm. Slowly, Thorin moves away.

‘I am sorry, Thorin.’

It is only now that Thorin is sitting away from him, the fur of his jacket pulled up against the cold and looking out across the barren lands, that Dwalin drops his head in his hands.

‘I wish things could have been different,’ comes his voice. It betrays no anger- and this is what kills Dwalin the most. He would rather he scream at him, and give him the opportunity to shout back, to release everything that’s built up inside his chest these past months. Years.

He wants to scream.

**

Thorin is in his arms once again, and the trail of blood behind him is on Dwalin’s clothes now- and everything Dwalin touches is blood and skin, and the fur of Thorin’s jacket is heavy with it. His life seeps away out of his hands like sand. Dwalin tries to smear blood away from Thorin’s face- needing to see clear, unmarked skin. It’s impossible. More impossible is the smile he yearns for- and his need is so great that one word, one last word tumbles from his mouth: ‘ _smile’_.

Thorin’s eyes flicker open, but they’re not Thorin’s eyes. Thorin’s eyes should be clear and focussed- and these are the eyes of a corpse. His mouth opens a little, and for one sickening moment Dwalin is hopeful that this is all going to be alright.

Then there is more blood than Dwalin can imagine, sliding down Thorin’s chin and into his collar- it comes out coughing and wheezing and gurgling.

Pushing back the urge to wretch, he shouts for a medic, a healer, an _elf_ \- anyone who would stop the blood pouring from him, and they come rushing to him where he kneels, cradling the dying dwarf in his arms.

He has no more voice left for words as they take him- no more strength to resist, no more tears.

He falls back into Balin’s arms; somehow, he’s there at his back, holding him.

Thorin is taken away off the battlefield, and that is the last memory Dwalin has of him.

**

_You sit there in your heartache_

_Waiting on some beautiful boy to_

_To save your from your old ways_

_You play forgiveness_

_Watch it now, here he comes_

_He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus_

_But he talks like a gentlemen_

_Like you imagined when you were young_


End file.
